


Kick the Beam

by pixie_rings



Series: Falconry and Other Pursuits [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Porn, Silly Hawke, Talking things over like grown-ups, The Dog is called Cat, bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixie_rings/pseuds/pixie_rings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leandra wants Hawke to get married. Hawke, however, is head over heels for a belligerent, broody elf. You can see where this is going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kick the Beam

**Author's Note:**

> Not entirely canon compliant. Set during Act II, obviously, but a bit different. Basically, there’s an initial skirmish between Hawke’s Gang and Hadriana from which Hadriana flees. Hawke and Fenris do the dirty, and then A Bitter Pill happens. I like to make my life difficult. It’s also really soppy, I think, because my Hawke was a besotted fool and I’m a besotted fool and let’s all be besotted and foolish together.  
> Random fact I’ve noticed: despite the fact I don’t drink the stuff, there’s always a hell of a lot of tea-drinking in my fics. It must be genetic.

_My mother had a great deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it._  
\- Mark Twain

.

“She’s trying to marry me off.”

Perhaps it was the tone of abject horror. Or maybe it was Hawke’s face, which wore a hunted expression, as if assassins were going to melt out of the very walls. Whatever it was, it caught his companions’ attention, the post-adventuring game of Wicked Grace in Varric’s suite temporarily abandoned in favour of (the entertainment offered by) Hawke’s predicament.

“Who?” Anders asked curiously, apparently grateful for the break in his losing streak.

“My mother,” Hawke whimpered. “She wants me to get married.”

There was a long, very pregnant pause.

Then both Isabela and Varric burst out laughing, one gripping her sides while the other pounded the table with his fist. The shrieks of their laughter covered Anders’s own sniggering. Merrill clapped her hands gleefully.

“Ooh, ooh, can we come? I’ve never been to a human wedding before, just Dalish bonding rituals. Do you really strip naked and jump over a fire? That’s what Fenarel said you did…”

Hawke shot her a disdainful look and groaned. “This isn’t funny, you lot!” he complained to the two that were still laughing heartily, now wiping their eyes and breathing heavily.

Only Fenris remained completely quiet during the whole thing. His gaze was lowered to his pint of beer, face hidden by his bangs, and he couldn’t see how Hawke was pointedly looking at him. Hawke didn’t know whether he was grateful for that or not.

Varric, however, noticed very well, being finely tuned to any new evolution in the Fenris and Hawke Drama. “So, Broody, what do you think about our friend’s dilemma?” he asked in a way that to the uninitiated would have been casual; the glint in his eye, however, told an entirely different story. Isabela caught on immediately, quick as a greased weasel in a drainpipe, and leant forward, smirking.

“Yes… aren’t you _thrilled_ for Hawke and his future bride, whomever she may be?”

Fenris shot her a look that could have withered stone and took a long swig of his beer. “Ecstatic,” was his icy reply. Before anyone could get in a joke at his expense, the elf stood, drained his mug, and marched out, clearly in the huffiest huff Hawke had ever seen him in.

“Ooh, I can _taste_ the jealousy from here,” Isabela said with great relish, thrumming her fingertips together and looking positively shark-like.

“You know, you _should_ go after him,” Varric stated matter-of-factly, giving Hawke a gentle nudge in the ribs. Hawke blinked, rubbed the back of his head sheepishly and quickly hurried after Fenris.

He caught up with him halfway to Hightown, but hung back for a moment, just to admire the way Fenris’s shapely behind moved in the moonlight. It was a work of art, really. Even when it stopped and its owner half-turned, causing Hawke to look up with a guilty grin.

“What do you want?” Fenris asked, folding his arms and squaring Hawke with the steeliest of gazes. Hawke cleared his throat.

“Well, er, you do know I’m not _actually_ going to marry anyone, right?” he said, trying not to think about how he’d stumbled over his words. “Least of all someone my _mother_ chooses.”

If it was just a flash of moonbeam, it was an awfully specific one, because Hawke would have bet his staff that what had just flickered over Fenris’s face was a blush and a look of great relief. It went as soon as it had come, however, shut up behind the walls of Fenris’s stony façade.

“It is absolutely none of my business who you marry,” Fenris said, turning on his heel and heading up the steps. Hawke groaned.

“Do you have to be so stubborn?” he demanded, throwing his arms up and letting them fall to his sides again with a slap. Sometimes he really had no idea how to get through those walls. He’d tried charming and sneaking and battering, but nothing worked. Fenris half-turned again, his face now a nasty scowl which didn’t really suit him at all, which was a shame, because he wore it nearly all the bloody time.

“Stubborn about _what_?” he asked. Hawke swallowed. Stubborn about what indeed?

They’d never actually admitted what Isabela and Varric (and probably everyone else except Merrill) took as common knowledge. All it seemed to be was a thick layer of sexual tension between them, perhaps sprinkled with a still-tentative dusting of trust and a dash of mutual respect despite obvious obstacles that had a lot to do with Hawke being able to shoot lighting from his fingertips. It was both trying and addictive to remain that way, and although Hawke knew he wasn’t wrong about what they could have, he was nothing if not a hypocrite and a coward, and terrified of what he might lose.

So he kept his mouth shut, and with a frustrated sigh Fenris left him there, fists clenched, impotent in the moonlight.

.

When he returned home, still angry with himself and his stupidity, his mother chose to inform him that he’d better not go gallivanting off across Kirkwall and environs next week, because there were girls to be met, tea to be drunk and facial muscles to be abused. That didn’t make his already bad evening any better.

.

Monday it was the girl from the Lancel family. She was stumpy, with a round face and no substance. Lady Lancel, however, was an ice-cold harpy of a woman, with shrewd, piercing eyes. Hawke vaguely wondered how the seed that made the poor girl could have planted itself in such a barren-looking body.

The girl had been a simpering mess, but Hawke had worn a good face to a bad game. His jokes may have fallen flat, but he was no child, and bad manners would have cast his mother in a bad light. As the afternoon wore on, though, he found his attention wandering. What he wouldn’t have given to be far away on the Wounded Coast, dealing with pirates. It was always gratifying to see Fenris’s satisfied smirk after he’d fried a few Tevinter slavers, too…

Lady Lancel and her daughter left two hours later, which was two hours too long. Then Varric had knocked on the door, asking if Hawke could come out to play with a wry grin, and Hawke had jumped at the call, pulling his robes on, grabbing his staff and kissing his mother on the cheek.

.

Tuesday it was the Pennills, father, mother and daughter, a ginger slip of girl who continuously blinked and made snuffling noises. She also sneezed as soon as she set foot in the parlour.

“Do you own a dog?” Lady Pennill had haughtily demanded, as her daughter wheezed under her father’s worried hand on her back. Both Hawke and Leandra turned to where Cat lay spread on the hearthrug like a king, and _that_ was the last they saw of _them_.

Flopping down next to Cat, he fondled the mabari’s ears affectionately. “Thanks, you slobbery old fool,” he murmured. Cat merely sighed a typical canine sigh and fell asleep again.

.

Wednesday it was Lord Costmary, a widower, and his pale ingénue offspring Laurel. She never raised her head, answered questions far too demurely for Hawke’s tastes, and was barely over seventeen – young enough to make Hawke cringe. A difference of eight years was eight years too many, and even Leandra could see that.

Also, Hawke felt a little guilty that he found Lord Costmary, a lean, rangy man with greying temples and an easy smile who must’ve been in his forties, more attractive than his daughter.

.

Thursday were the Wyndhams, who brought three of the things, all of whom looked _nothing_ like their short, fat father and _far_ too much like the three guardsmen down in the kitchen sharing a drink with Bodahn. Hawke couldn’t resist a quick quip on how lucky they were they didn’t take after their father, which had earned him nothing but agreement and a hearty laugh from Lord Wyndham and immense disapproval from his mother.

(He crossed Lady Wyndham in the Chantry square a few weeks later, and she couldn’t look him in the eye.)

.

Friday had been Lady Yarrow with her daughter Ysabeau, who _wouldn’t fucking shut up_ , and loudly wondered where the servants were Leandra brought them tea herself, as she always did. That time was one he particularly desired to be dragged away by his companions, and spent most of their visit gazing off into thin air, nodding and humming at intermittent intervals and imagining Fenris on his knees in the library. He hoped they hadn’t cottoned on when he’d self-consciously crossed his legs. It would have been decidedly _awkward_.

Leandra saw them off with the fakest warm smile in the whole of Kirkwall, and returned to the parlour to berate her son, once again making the grown man feel like the naughty child that had stolen a jar of blackberry jam.

“You don’t seem very inspired,” she said, folding her arms. Hawke groaned.

“Forgive me, Mother, I fail to see how this is important, really.”

Leandra’s frown was enough to make him quake in his figurative boots. It had been obvious she’d thought it important, but he hadn’t quite realised how much.

“Seeing you leave on the Deep Roads, knowing you could have died there, losing… losing Bethany, and now with Carver in the Order…” She trembled slightly. “It’s made me realise how fragile this whole life is. I won’t be around forever. I want insurances for you, Garrett, I want some stability, some future for you. Something for you to come home to when I’m gone. You can’t go around adventuring all your life.”

Hawke sat up straighter, reaching out a hand to place on his mother’s folded ones. Leandra sighed.

“I want you to be happy,” she said, reaching forward and cupping his cheek. It was then that a sudden, deep desire took him. He could tell her. She was his _mother_ , he could tell her _anything_ … He could tell her women weren’t all that interesting to him, and that his happiness had pointy ears, a tendency to sulk and could barely function on a normal social level. That his happiness had trust issues, hated the very category of humanity that he belonged to and was a temperamental drunk.

Oh, yes, a _perfect_ life partner. She’d be so proud.

“I am for now,” he said instead, trying to be as reassuring as he could. “I can find a… someone to spend my life with on my own, you know.”

Leandra gave him one of her looks of Motherly Scepticism. “You don’t seem to be making much of an effort,” she chided. Hawke huffed.

“Because, to be honest, it’s not very high on my to-do list at the moment,” he said. “I’ll know when the right person’s come along, don’t worry.”

Technically, he already had, as far as he was concerned.

“I’m your mother, I always worry,” she said, and joined in when Hawke laughed. “I do trust you, even if your methods are unorthodox.” She stood, straightening her skirt delicately. “But that doesn’t mean I’m giving up,” she added, and to Hawke’s ears it was a very dangerous threat.

.

He’d spent half the afternoon running around Kirkwall trying to find the slippery, pointy-eared bastard who was currently missing, and he was tired, dusty and tetchy. He was worried about him, because sulky Fenris meant drunk Fenris, which lead to reckless Fenris, and he didn’t really want to scrape what remained of the love of his life (sort of) from the paving stones of a back alley. But if Fenris wasn’t at any of his usual haunts or at home, he was _somewhere_ in the blighted city, which was large and labyrinthine and Hawke was too weary, dirty and annoyed to give two fucks anymore, even though he knew he’d worry like a mother until he saw Fenris again. He knew, anyway, that if he did try to chase the elf hither and thither uptown and downtown he wouldn’t get anywhere. He’d always _just_ miss him, like in the mummers’ comedies.

So one could imagine his great shock when he stumbled through his front door and found the aforementioned slippery, pointy-eared bastard sitting there, waiting for him, and looking gorgeous (but Hawke always thought that anyway). He lifted his head when Hawke staggered in, looking both relieved and guilty and both kissable and punchable. The mage settled for folding his arms and glaring in silent anger.

Fenris stood, rubbing his arm nervously. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured, running a hand through his snowy hair. “About what you said.”

“What, exactly? I say a lot of things,” Hawke said flippantly. _Most of them absolutely hilarious,_ he neglected to add, but thought anyway. Fenris winced.

“About… the other night. About earlier. About…” He hesitated, fingers twitching in the barely-repressed typical Tevinter need to gesticulate. “Never mind. I should go.”

Hawke stopped him before he could leave, hand on cold metal. The tips of his fingers met on hot, branded skin.

“No. Stay,” he said. Fenris turned, and Hawke brushed his thumb along the elf’s jaw. Maker, he was beautiful, dusky skin contrasting with hair like snow, those green eyes dark with something Hawke was sure he mirrored. He could feel the thrum between them, could taste it on the air like the electricity before a storm. And like a storm, it had to break.

Fenris pulled Hawke against him, reaching up to kiss him hungrily. Hawke kissed back, light-headed and desperate, hardly believing this was actually happening. He’d have pinched himself if Fenris gauntlets hadn’t been stabbing the nape of his neck. His back hit the wall as he let his hands slide down, and he couldn’t help but let out a contented hum at finally being able to run his hands down those supple thighs.

Making it to the bed was good. Falling onto it half-naked, Fenris shedding his armour as he stalked over, expression purely feral, was even better. Maker, it was like something out of a dream, one of the many, many dreams he’d had about Fenris in his bed.

Reality was proving to be just as sweet, Hawke thought as Fenris slithered onto the bed, lithe and predatory. This kiss was even better than the one at the door and the many they’d shared stumbling over each other on their way up the stairs. Hawke tried to map out everything that he could with his wandering hands, letting out a pleasant rumble when Fenris’s own hands tried their luck at cartography on his chest. Fingers ran through his chest hair, tweaked his nipples, and Fenris was _far_ too dressed for this.

When _finally_ naked skin was on naked skin, Hawke felt light-headed. Although that might also have been the crisp taste of lyrium dancing under his skin. Fenris was a living lyrium vein, and all it did was heighten the pleasure as he was held down, slim, callused fingers circling his cock and pumping. The tattoos felt vibrant under his tongue as he traced them ever lower, savouring the elf as if he were a fine wine, all lean, delicious muscles and hot skin. And well-endowed, too, which was always a wonderful bonus.

It was so, so good to have Fenris part his legs with that sinful ‘come hither’ look, so good to lean forward and press in, using every fibre in his being to take it slow. He wanted to enjoy it, take his time to feel that tight heat, the way Fenris trembled underneath him, the way his fingers dug into his shoulder blades and simply the way their impatient bodies called for each other. It would have been so easy to just thrust in balls-deep and pound out his need…

Fingers gripped the back of his neck, forcing him down into a vicious kiss, all teeth and hunger. Fenris rubbed his cheek against Hawke’s, perhaps enjoying the contrast between the smooth of his skin and the rough of Hawke’s beard, and pressed his lips to the other’s ear.

“Fuck me,” he purred, licking his lips as he pulled back, eyelids heavy and pupils blown. Well, Hawke didn’t really need telling twice. Pulling out for the barest moment felt like torture, but plunging back in was sweet, sweet relief. And it was all he could do to hear Fenris’s voice rise in pleasure, gravelly moans and wet gasps against his ears. The way their bodies met in the middle, rushing against one another hungrily, the way Hawke’s hands seemed to fit the dips in Fenris’s hips… Maker, it was almost ridiculously perfect. Reality was so much better than waking up with wet sheets like he’d regressed ten years. He was practically ruined for life, now.

Well, fuck.

He tasted the sweat on Fenris’s skin, chasing the heat with his tongue as his hand slipped between them to take that exquisite cock in hand. Fenris trembled at that, gasping out a garbled mess of what were probably Tevinter curses (or side dishes, Hawke wasn’t exactly well-versed in Arcanum), and Hawke found himself muttering a litany of encouragements, endearments and compliments as Fenris tightened around him. Their thrusting turned fast and sloppy, their voices devoured by clumsy kisses that were more biting than snogging, and Hawke was so close, so _close_ …

With a broken cry of Fenris’s name he came, deep inside the man underneath him, mind completely black of anything that wasn’t heat, friction and red welts down his back. A few more tugs on Fenris’s erection and he was coming too, wet and hot on his own stomach and Hawke’s hand, tense and tightening painfully around Hawke’s oversensitive cock as he swore in his own tongue.

Hawke had just enough energy left in him to pull out and roll to the side, grinning like an idiot.

“You are grinning like an idiot,” Fenris muttered hoarsely. Hawke noted, with a silly little flutter in his chest, that Fenris’s accent deepened after sex. It sounded very sexy, and if he hadn’t been entirely spent he was sure not-so-little Little Hawke would have been very interested. As it was, all he could do was chuckle to himself and turn his head to the side.

Fenris was running his fingers through his own come on his stomach almost thoughtfully, but his eyes were fixed on Hawke, hot and full of the promise that the night certainly wasn’t over yet. His tattoos glowed softly in the dark room, white-hot and enticing in the way they followed the curves of his body perfectly, and Hawke thought he was the luckiest man in all of Thedas right then.

Afterglow also involved Hawke licking Fenris’s seed off his fingers (a little bitter, but he wouldn’t have traded that taste for the world just then) and then off the elf’s stomach, nuzzling into warm, drying skin. Deceptively strong hands followed the muscles of his shoulders and back, weaving through his hair, and in that moment he really wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else in the world.

.

Hawke stretched, feeling pleasantly boneless and _very_ well-satisfied. The rumpled sheets smelt of sex, the sun poured cheerfully through the open curtains and in all honesty he hadn’t felt this good in _years_. He cracked an eye open to find Fenris propped up on his elbow, watching him with a look that was half-fond, half-appraising. Hawke grinned.

“I’d kiss you,” he said, “but, you know, morning breath.”

The chuckle that got out of the elf spread out beside him made his heart quiver like he was twelve and naïve again. He reached out a hand to tuck Fenris’s hair back, and he could _feel_ his smile mellow into something warm and affectionate as Fenris’s fingers slipped over his own. Maker, he was turning into the biggest sop north of Orlais.

It didn’t take long for hands to wander a little further along trails that were soon to be familiar (or so Hawke hoped), taking a moment to remember marks and scratches, until Hawke couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled Fenris to him by the hips, fitting them together as easily as if they were made to, scattering kisses all over that pretty neck while his hands took their fill of that arse. Which was certainly as pert and delectable as those chausses made it seem.

It was incredibly arousing to hear Fenris’s amused laughter turn into purring when they began undulating against each other, cocks hardening as they rubbed together. And, if Hawke was to be entirely honest, he couldn’t think of a better way to wake up for the rest of his life.

He refreshed a love-bite that he knew would be just visible above Fenris’s collar and give Isabela and Varric some entertainment as he took stock of that maudlin epiphany. He would have been disgusted with himself and his sappiness if he hadn’t had other, more pressing matters to currently attend to.

As it was, they didn’t emerge until gone midday. Which was more than fine by Hawke, but perhaps not so fine by the woman sitting rigidly in the parlour. They both froze, Fenris looking pointedly anywhere but at Leandra. She, however, was giving them a very meaningful look, although Hawke couldn’t quite tell whether the corners of her mouth were twitching or not. She always did that, making him unsure until the very last minute, until she couldn’t help herself any longer and had to laugh.

“Garrett,” she said, and there was no missing that little frisson of mirth buried deep beneath faux-admonition. “And guest,” she added, nodding graciously. Oh, now that Hawke knew it, he could see her eyes were positively _twinkling_. “It’s so very nice to see you finally rise.”

“Mother,” Hawke replied, doing his best to keep his own face straight. All of this silent hilarity was, however, completely lost on Fenris, who now looked nervous, bewildered and quite a way towards embarrassed.

“Lady Hawke,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the carpet.

“Oh, don’t look so solemn, dear boy,” said Leandra with a wave of her hand. “But I do believe my son and I must have a talk.” She looked slightly melancholy at that, and Hawke could sense that although the atmosphere was anything but tense, the humour had gone and had been replaced with a twinge of disappointment. With a sigh, Hawke took Fenris’s hand and accompanied him to the door. He didn’t want to see him go, not yet, but… whatever Leandra had in mind, it was best to get it over with.

“Sorry,” he said. Fenris shook his head.

“No… Is she angry?” he asked. Hawke snorted.

“Nah.” He leaned down slightly and kissed Fenris, softly at first, and then harder once the other gave in. “I’ll pop by the Hanged Man later. Give the others something to talk about.” He winked. Fenris rolled his eyes.

“That is all we need, the wench and Varric all over this like starving dogs.”

“Oh, come on, don’t you just _love_ being the centre of attention?”

Fenris levelled him with a magnificent withering look, which simply made Hawke laugh, and with a final kiss, he was out the door.

The walk back to the parlour seemed to take forever, in Hawke’s opinion, and it felt like he was heading to the gallows. He sat opposite his mother, who poured him tea exactly the way he liked it and made him feel awfully guilty, and slid the cup forward.

“I suspected this,” she said, “but I do wish you had told me.”

Hawke flinched. Her discontent always hurt more than any blade or spell ever could. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he murmured, picking up his teacup for something to do with his hands.

“I suppose you had your reasons for not telling me?” she said, raising her eyebrows as she sipped daintily from her own cup.

“Not good enough reasons, in all honesty,” Hawke said. “I suppose I was just worried you’d be disappointed.”

“Oh, darling, you could never disappoint me,” Leandra said, and she sounded as if she was more disappointed by the fact he thought she would be. It made him feel even worse. He was incredibly grateful when she smiled at him, sipped her tea again and changed the subject.

“He’s quite handsome,” she remarked, eyes regaining their twinkle. Hawke flushed, clearing his throat.

“You think so?” he couldn’t help but ask. He might’ve been preening, just a little. She chuckled.

“Actually, yes. I take it he’s the, ah, prickly elf you mention quite often?”

Hawke blinked. He’d been mentioning Fenris often? Really? He certainly hadn’t noticed. He’d probably waxed lyrical about him, though, given his characteristic inability to keep his mouth shut for five minutes, especially about things he liked.

“Yes, that’s him,” he replied, tilting his head a little with a smile that was probably incredible mushy. His mother seemed to notice it, because her smile became a little bit more like a smirk.

“I hope he feels the same way,” she said. Hawke lowered his gaze, scratching his beard distractedly.

“Believe me, Mother, so do I.”

.

It had been too much to hope for this little bubble of happiness to last very long. This was _Kirkwall_ , unhappiness skulked broodingly behind every corner like a jilted lover, waiting for the right time to strike. And the shared smiles, held gazes and general air of resolved sexual tension Hawke had built into a happy place came crashing magnificently down around his ears. As was its wont, after all. He probably should have been used to it by now, but Hawke was a stubborn bastard, a closet optimist, and a bloody fool.

He also should have figured out that there was no way in the Void that Hadriana (that _bitch_ ) would have just scurried back to her master with her tail between her legs. No, this time she had more slavers, and, what was worse, more human resources.

He’d let Fenris kill her. She deserved it, and frankly the world was a better place without her in it. But whatever understanding Hawke had deluded himself into believing they had was shattered. Fenris was a still a ball of spikes, Hawke’s empathy wasted on it, and it made the mage angry and hurt to think it was all for nothing. It was embarrassing to be snapped at and rebuffed in front of both Anders and Varric.

And no amount of beers in the Hanged Man seemed to make it any better. Not that it ever did, but it was worth a try, given everyone else seemed to sing odes about the memory-dampening properties of copious quantities of alcohol. All it ever did to _Hawke_ was make him whiny and prone to long, nonsensical ranting. Right now, Isabela was patting his arm and cooing at him, and Varric had had enough drinks to make his nodding in faux-sympathy look sincere.

Anders, however, seemed to think he’d had enough. “Come on,” he grunted, trying to heave Hawke bodily from his chair and failing miserably. “Let’s get you home.”

“Aw, why?” Isabela complained. “It was just getting interesting.”

Anders rolled his eyes, stumbling under the other man’s weight and bracing himself on the table. “Yes, because he _really_ needs to be ranting about mages and Templars in public.” Apparently he was ignoring the fact it was what he did all the bloody time. He managed to drag Hawke outside, and the fresh waft of salty air from the sea seemed to make the other mage sober somewhat, at least enough to help him walk on his own with minimum lurching. He took a deep breath, held it as he rubbed his eyes, and let it out on a long, dejected sigh.

Anders was hovering worriedly. It was halfway between endearing and annoying.

“Need help getting home?” he asked hopefully.

“That an excuse to grope me?” Hawke slurred. Maybe once he’d have been flattered. Right now he was just bitter. Anders folded his arms and gave him a withering look.

“No, it’s because you’re drunk, your faculties are addled and I don’t want you getting murdered in a back alley,” he snapped. Hawke huffed, clearly not wanting to give in, but also too drunk to form a decent reply, for once. Anders rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.

“Come on, then. We haven’t got all night.”

The silence as they walked was a horrid, horrid mixture of companionable and awkward, which Hawke hadn’t thought possible until then. And then Anders had to go and break it, and that just made everything a thousand times worse.

“So, er… you and the elf?”

Hawke hummed, though he wasn’t exactly sure what his own answer meant.

“Can’t think why,” Anders muttered, and Hawke groaned.

“I really don’t want to talk about it right now,” he said gruffly, rubbing his face. He was tired, drunk and heartbroken. He was definitely not in the mood to uselessly defend his admittedly terrible choice in men, nor did he have the mental faculty. Half the time he could barely explain what about Fenris attracted him so to himself, at least not without resorting to elucidations that sounded quite masochistic. Trying to explain it to Anders while still quite drunk and angry at the whole world as they walked through the dangerous streets of Kirkwall at night was an exercise in futility.

When at last they reached Hawke’s place, Anders sighed again.

“Listen… if you ever need a shoulder to cry on…”

“I might take you up on that, one day,” Hawke mumbled. “You all right on your own? Want to go through the kitchen?” He pointedly needlessly in the direction of his front door. The healer waved a dismissive hand.

“Nah, don’t worry. I’m a big, tough mage, I tie my own boots and everything.”

Hawke snorted, and Anders gave him a lopsided grin.

“Stop stealing all the lines I can use,” Hawke muttered, before sending Anders on his way. He’d check up tomorrow to make sure he’d gotten home all right, but Anders was sober and certainly not a fool, though he had the tendency to act like one.

The fireplace in the library was still blazing when Hawke stumbled through the door. That wasn’t a good sign. He tried to sneak past, but his already rather pathetic sneaking skills were rendered useless by his inebriation (oh, but of course that sassy brain of his could still use big words, couldn’t it?), and he tripped over his own feet right in front of the doorway.

Oops.

Leandra’s book snapped shut with a vicious clap. Hawke wished the floor would swallow him up as she padded over to him in embroidered slippers. He remained perfectly still, half-suffocating against the carpet, until a very wet nose started snuffling at his hair and a very slobbery tongue stuck itself in his ear.

“Yuck, Cat!” Hawke balked, rolling over and trying to push to great dog away.

“You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?” Leandra said reproachfully. Hawke squinted up at her as Cat clambered over his chest. She was wearing a shawl he remembered from his childhood, and a scowl that brought back equally fond memories.

“Might have been…” he wheezed out, Cat cutting off all possibilities of air intake with his monstrous size. Leandra sighed, turned on her heel and went back towards the hearth, finally patting her thigh halfway. Cat inelegantly shoved himself off Hawke’s torso and ambled over to throw himself down on the hearthrug.

It took Hawke a moment to get his wind back and sit up, rubbing at his chest where he’d been elbowed and scratched with hard, blunt nails. “Are you angry with me?” he asked of the disappointed silence. Leandra looked up.

“You only drink when something’s wrong,” she said. She eyed the second chair in front of the fire expectantly, and Hawke headed over, letting himself fall heavily into his seat with a groan. The silence stretched on again, thicker and thicker. Hawke had always hated silences.

“Are you going to tell me about it?” Leandra asked tersely. Hawke winced.

“Argued with Fenris,” he muttered. It wasn’t the entire truth, it probably wasn’t even close to it, and Hawke knew perfectly well she knew that, but he wasn’t in the mood to go into great detail, not when he’d spent half the night trying to drink it all away. And it wasn’t his place to reveal the sparse details he knew of Fenris’s past to someone else, not even if that someone was his mother.

Whatever the truth was, though, it was hard to keep silent with such expectation hanging on the air. Leandra was giving him one of her Pointed Looks, the one that practically demanded he spill his heart to her. He tried resisting for all of two seconds. It was futile, of course, so he merely threw his hands up and groaned.

“He’s… difficult. Stubborn. Prickly. He’s got issues and a past that’s desperately trying to catch up with him and take him away from me, and… and I’m trying, Maker’s Breath, I’m _trying_ , and he keeps throwing it back in my face!”

He shook his head and pressed a hand to his forehead. Leandra was quiet for a long moment, long enough that Hawke jumped when he felt her hand touch his left one.

“I think you need to speak with him,” she murmured. “It’s no use bottling it all up. Even if the talking is all one-sided, it’s better to do so. I’m speaking from experience.” Her smile was tinged with memory, and Hawke swallowed silently, remembering his father. Of course, building a relationship that had worked for so long couldn’t have been easy. His parents had been both such different people, the noblewoman and the apostate, running off to elope to Ferelden, and yet… he’d never seen them anything other than deeply in love. Could he and Fenris ever even hope to reach that sort of understanding?

“I think… I think I need to sleep off the ale,” he said. It was horribly obvious Leandra saw it as the desperate escape attempt it was, but she said nothing and let him go.

.

It was not often Fenris had visitors. Aside from the few people he had slowly come to consider something akin to friends and Hawke, no one ever bothered with him, not even tax collectors – at least, not anymore. So of course he was surprised when he answered a polite knock and saw, of all people, Leandra Hawke standing there. She looked very serious, and Fenris was not sure he was going to like her reason for visiting.

“May I come in?” she asked courteously, and Fenris nodded. He then became painfully aware of the very human bones near his front door, and if he briefly winced at the terrible demonstration that gave of him.

“Forgive the mess,” he said self-consciously, leading her to hid bedroom, which also amounted to the only truly habitable room in the whole building. To his great relief, Leandra did not look around at her surroundings, preferring to keep her eyes in front of her. He invited her to sit, and she took the invitation, straightening her skirt primly.

“I suppose… you are here to talk about Hawke?” he said tentatively. Leandra nodded, brief and business-like.

“Indeed. It has come to my attention that you and my son have… ah, to use his own words, you argued.”

Fenris let his head fall guiltily. Hawke had done nothing but worry about him, and he had repaid him with anger and sharpness. The idea of talking about it, about murdering that bitch, had made his skin crawl, and he’d done what he did best: he’d run.

“While I don’t understand the circumstances, I don’t wish to see my son unhappy.” She levelled him with a powerful look that spoke of a mother’s protectiveness, and while Hawke would have undoubtedly defined himself as ‘big enough and ugly enough’ to take care of himself, Fenris had no doubt that Leandra was like a she-bear when it came to her children. However, he did not like where this was going. Was this going to end in the predictable admonition to never go near her son again?

“I only want what is best for him,” she went on. “I want him to have some certainty for the future, whatever that future may be. I want him to be happy. And yes, I would like him to settle down and have a family. Every mother wants grandchildren one day. Garrett is my son. I believe he deserves the best the world can give him. Maker knows he’s never been able to have it before.”

Fenris’s jaw tightened. He clenched his gauntleted fists, and he waited for the inevitable demand.

“Fenris, does my son make _you_ happy?” she asked. The elf raised his head and openly stared at her. _There_ was a question he had not been expecting.

“I…” He thought about it. Hawke made him laugh, as much as it sometimes pained him to admit it. He was charming, that was certain, in his own, slightly manic way. Hawke was the first mage he had met that treated him as a person rather than an object. It seemed that Hawke did not see a pretty, shiny, elf-shaped bauble that belonged to someone, and Fenris was grateful for that. He asked for his opinion, appreciated his conversation, and the way he _looked_ at him… Those whiskey-coloured eyes seemed to delve full-handed into his chest and clench around his heart in a way so different than what he himself was physically capable of. And while he was certain he was in far too deep too soon, with a man that had reeked of bad news, Hawke made a decent enough piece of flotsam to cling to. “Yes,” Fenris murmured, quiet and sincere.

“And I am beyond certain that you make Garrett happy,” Leandra said, quite matter-of-factly. Fenris stared at her, bewildered. His confusion worsened when she smiled gently. “He lights up when he talks about you. Garrett has a terrible habit of wearing his feelings on his sleeve.”

Fenris couldn’t help but chuckle at that. It was terribly true. “I believe it might go with the terrible sense of humour.”

It was a relief to hear Leandra’s own soft laugh. It was pleasant and warm, and for a moment Fenris felt a twinge of envy for Hawke’s luck. “Yes, it might. You must understand, Fenris, that you are not what I was expecting. You aren’t even _close_ to what I was expecting. However… you make my son happy, and that is what I want for him. And, a word of advice…” She added, rising from her seat. “Don’t keep everything inside. I have no idea what has happened to you before now, and it’s none of my business. But… you have friends, and a lover, and they all care about you in their own, strange ways. Talk to them. Nothing works if you don’t talk about it first.”

Fenris lowered his head once more, hiding behind his hair. 

“Mother?”

That made him look up again. Hawke stood in the doorway, wearing a baffled expression. His eyes were quickly darting from Fenris to his mother, and Fenris almost thought he could hear his brain come to standstill.

“This is surreal and disturbing,” he remarked, raising an eyebrow. Leandra smiled.

“Hello, darling. I was just dispensing some motherly advice.”

“Well, Isabela could probably use some,” Hawke advised her. “Just make sure you get paid for it, next time.”

“I will,” she promised, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. “Now, I’m sure you have many embarrassing things to discuss that you don’t want me overhearing. I shall see you later, darling.”

And with that she left, taking the scent of jasmine and baking away with her and leaving them in the musty, stale smell of Fenris’s lair. Hawke sat down heavily where his mother had been and looked at Fenris expectantly. The elf stared back, as if daring him to ask what had actually transpired.

“She truly did give me motherly advice,” he said eventually, smiling slightly at Hawke’s triumphant expression.

“She’s good at that,” Hawke said. “My father was clever, but she was always the wise one.” He nodded proudly. He could always rely on his mother to set things right – within reason, of course. Though he did have the sneaky suspicion that if everyone in Thedas just sat down and talked with her, there probably wouldn’t be any wars, hatred or general unpleasantness.

“She is,” Fenris agreed, and let the silence fall between them, not too heavy, but certainly not casual. It sat between them, awkwardly voyeuristic, waiting to be broken.

“Listen,” Hawke began, but Fenris raised a hand and stopped him.

“No,” he said. “I am sorry. I… want to be happy, but it has been so long I am not entirely sure I remember _how_ to be. Perhaps I never have been, and this is the first chance I have had. I am not sure how this works.” He tucked his hair back, cursing under his breath when it simply fell back into place again. “I was angry, and bitter, and none of it was directed at you.”

Hawke leaned forward, elbows on his knees and chin on his hand. “I get it. I just… I want to make you happy, Fenris. Really, I do. I’m not sure I’ll be able to, but I’ll try. I’m a stubborn bastard, and grotesquely optimistic.”

Fenris chuckled at that. “I have noticed.”

“Take all the time you need,” Hawke murmured. “I’ll wait. I’ve been waiting for a long time, I can wait some more.”

He did get a kiss out of his sincerity. It wasn’t such a bad trade-off.

.

When Hawke returned home, the parlour door was open, and he poked his head in. His mother was on one of the couches, reading quietly, Cat sprawled out at her feet, twitching as he dreamt about Maker only knew what. She lifted her head when she noticed him and smiled.

“How did it go?” she asked.

He shrugged, but his smile suggested that it had gone well enough for him to be content. Her own smile broadened and she patted the seat next to her.

“So?” she prompted, looking far too eager to know about her son’s love life for said son to be entirely comfortable.

“Well… we talked a bit. Said we’d take it slow. It’s for the best.”

Leandra looked terribly disappointed, and Hawke chuckled.

“Were you hoping for wedding bells within the month?” he asked teasingly. She laughed, delicate and mild, and patted his hand.

“Oh, it would have been nice, considering I’m not going to get grandchildren out of it,” she quipped. Hawke spluttered, choking on his own voice as he stared at her. Her laughter became brighter and louder, and she covered it with her hand. “I’m sorry, dear, are you all right?”

“Fine,” Hawke squeaked, waving the concern away like a fly. “Ah, you never know, we might adopt. A dwarf, perhaps.” He grinned. “Or a qunari, just to make the family weirder. Apostate, of course, got to keep up the family tradition of running from religious authority. He or she would grow up incredibly confused.”

Leandra shook her head, and they both laughed together.

.

It was only after another week of running around Kirkwall cleaning up other people’s messes that the gang – he should suggest a brainstorming session, come up with a better name, like Hawke’s Heroes, or something equally awe-inspiring – finally gathered in Varric’s suite for Wicked Grace and booze. No better way to celebrate than dumping not-so-honestly earned money into Isabela’s pockets, after all.

“So, how goes your mother’s quest to marry you off?” Isabela asked, leaning forward as she waited for Anders to seal his penniless fate once again. Hawke’s eyes went to Fenris. Fenris met his gaze, and call him a hopeless romantic, but it made butterflies well up in his stomach.

“It goes well, actually,” he said cheerfully. Isabela cocked an eyebrow, glancing between the mage and the elf with lips pursed with mischief.

“Are you getting all this?” she hissed at Varric. Varric offered her a thumbs-up as he scribbled away at a small, leather-bound journal.

“Have you honestly no shame, dwarf?” Fenris asked, groaning in embarrassment.

“Nope, none at all!” Varric crowed. “Oh, Hawke, your memoirs will be a bestseller, I guarantee it!”

“Let me do the pictures,” Isabela insisted eagerly.

After a few more rounds, a few more drinks and a few more lewd comments, they decided to call it a night, moneybags considerably lighter. The walk back to Hightown was considerably different this time, the silence between the two of them mellower, more companionable. It felt right, even though all Hawke wanted to do was push Fenris against a wall and kiss him senseless. He’d content himself with just walking close enough that it meant more than friendship.

“I think I’m going to be pretty rubbish at taking it slow,” he mused out loud, happy just to get a chuckle from the elf at his side.

“Perhaps we could take it medium speed,” Fenris suggested, the tease in his voice obvious, and Hawke felt a little thrill at being able to drag the funny side out of his… whatever Fenris was. Semi-lover? It didn’t really matter, as long as what they had had a fighting chance.

“Medium speed… I like the sound of that. I don’t think I could keep my libido in check for as long as slow would require.”

“Are you saying you would, how did Isabela put it?, ‘jump my bones’ right now, if I allowed you?”

“Er…” That sounded like a trick question. Hawke wasn’t always that good at those. “No will get me a goodnight kiss, right?”

Maker, was it _good_ to hear Fenris laugh like that.

Their conversation covered the time it took to get to Hawke’s door. The mage leant against the wall, trying not to look too expectant. Fenris raised an eyebrow.

“I expect you want your goodnight kiss,” he said. Hawke’s innocent whistle wouldn’t have fooled anyone. Fenris shook his head, reached up and pulled Hawke down for a long kiss that could probably have been defined as ‘toe-curling’. Or maybe Hawke was just that besotted. It was probably a decent half of both, actually, he thought with an inner smirk as he wound his arms around Fenris’s waist.

“See you tomorrow,” he murmured. Fenris hummed his agreement, and Hawke reluctantly allowed him to pull away, watching him go with a lovesick sigh.

He should probably thank his mother for all this. He’d make her breakfast in bed tomorrow morning.


End file.
